Stroke
by zaida.thorngage
Summary: After Alana is taken away, Tom's single-minded mission of getting her back becomes all-consuming. He begins to waste his life away, wondering if they'll ever be reunited. Rated M for language and certain scenes in the story. Pairing: Tom/Alana
1. Chapter 1: Taken

"The 4400" was created by Scott Peters and Rene Echevarria. All characters (and NTAC!) belong to them. I own nothing more than the storyline.

**Note: This is my first attempt at writing in years. Rate & review, but please give specifics on reviews. You can't make a better omelette without someone giving you tips on how to do it, right?

**Sorry about the short chapters; this is quite literally the first draft.

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Chapter 1: Taken

"Tom, you can't do this," the woman called after him, "You're one of the best agents here!" Tom spun around on his heels and stared menacingly into her eyes, "The hell I can't, Meghan… and it looks like I just did." Whipping around, he marched straight to his desk with his boss following behind, begging and pleading for him to reconsider while he busied himself with snatching papers, photos, whatever he could reach inside of his desk, and threw it all into a box. When he stormed out, the rest of the team at the National Threat Assessment Command just stared, dumbfounded at the scene that just unraveled in front of them. Meghan Doyle just stared as Tom Baldwin's form retreated through the door.

_Just keep walking, Tommy-boy_, he hissed at himself, _Keep walking… _Once he reached his car, he threw his belongings into the backseat, jumped into the driver's seat and barely thought about safety as he barreled out of the parking lot – nearly running over his now-former partner, Diana Skouris. "Hey, what the hell? Watch where you're fu---- Tom?" Diana did a quick double-take, wondering what had made Tom so angry as to nearly wipe out his partner.

Diana turned to walk inside when she was greeted by a frantic blonde-haired woman. "Tom! Tom – wait!" Meghan stopped at Diana's side, trying to catch her breath. Not wasting a second, Diana looked over at her boss and asked, "Wanna clue me in on what the hell just happened here?" Between breaths, Meghan finally managed to gasp out, "Tom --- quit. Alana --- gone. Taken. Need --- to catch --- my breath." Horrified at this revelation, Diana looked from Meghan's panting form back to the street where Tom left just moments earlier.


	2. Chapter 2: Punished

"The 4400" was created by Scott Peters and Rene Echevarria. All characters (and NTAC!) belong to them. I own nothing more than the storyline.

**Note: Please R&R, I'd appreciate it! Thanks! *Sorry about the short chapters; this is quite literally the first draft.

Chapter 2: Punished

The Baldwin residence was in shambles. The only area left undisturbed was the bathroom that they shared. Broken glass and furniture, pillow stuffing, papers, and Lord only knew what else littered the floor. Tom didn't notice anyone knocking at the front door or the footsteps through the house. He looked up when someone started knocking at the bathroom door – he hadn't realized it was so late. "Dad," a familiar voice called, "Dad! You in there? Are you alright?" Silence. Tom stared straight ahead, hoping Kyle would just walk away right now. "Dad… Are we gonna have to do this the easy way or the hard way?"

Tom sat in the tub, desperately wishing he could be stone at that point in time, when the locked door of the bathroom came crashing to the floor, revealing a haggard looking Kyle Baldwin haloed in the pale light from the attached bedroom. Tom blinked once, then began to speak slowly, "I had it locked for a reason, Kyle." With a half-hearted laugh, Kyle shot back, "Yeah, well, you weren't answering me, and from the looks of things I figured you wouldn't notice one more broken thing around here." Tom didn't acknowledge his son's attempt at lifting his spirits.

Minutes passed, Kyle took a seat on the toilet and just gazed at his father. "So," Kyle began, "you really did a number on the place, huh?" His father replied with a non-committal grunt. A few more minutes passed before Kyle worked up his nerve to finally speak again, "Look, Diana called and said something pretty horrible happened to you today, horrible enough to make you quit your job. Wanna start talking now?" Kyle looked his father over, and caught a glimpse of crimson satin in the pale moonlight from the window. _Isn't that Alana's..?_ Kyle didn't have to wait long for an answer – his father spoke in the same slow, pained manner that he did before, "She's gone, Kyle. They're punishing me." "Punishing you?" Kyle repeated. "Yeah…" "For what?" Kyle asked. His father whispered his answer before his nerve broke and buried his head into the satin nightgown:

"They're punishing me because I didn't kill Isabelle Tyler."


	3. Chapter 3: Threats

"The 4400" was created by Scott Peters and Rene Echevarria. All characters (and NTAC!) belong to them. I own nothing more than the storyline.

**Note: The third chapter in my short-chapter story. Please R&R, thanks in advance! *Sorry about the short chapters; this is quite literally the first draft. At least you're being rewarded with a longer chapter this time, right? ^_^

Chapter 3: Threats

_Ugh… it's morning,_ Tom thought, disgusted, _Was it always so…. annoyingly chipper?_ Tom finally uncurled from his position in the bathtub while his muscles screamed at him as he stretched. Tom looked himself over in the mirror, realized he just didn't care, then went into their… his, now… bedroom to fumble through what was left in the closet. He dragged himself into the shower and made himself get dressed while he replayed last night's conversation in his head. _I know they're punishing me… I didn't kill Isabelle… I should have… I'd still be in bed with my arms wrapped around her, now, if I had, _Tom cursed himself as he continued to think…_ Isabelle. Wait, what was it that she said? _He vaguely remembered her mentioning something about an art museum between his frantic search for her at their home and his subsequent resignation and last night's residential rampage. His brain had tried to block it out in a futile attempt to make it not real… but there was a painting – a painting hanging inside of a museum. The woman in the oil-covered canvas was a slap in the face, the way she looked out at her viewers. _What the hell was the name of that damn painting, again?_ Tom thought for a minute…. "Shit!" he screamed, "'Alana in Repose' – It was her in the painting."

His memories of seeing the painting hanging in the museum for the first time flooded his brain and sent the man into a fit of screaming rage. Tom got out of the shower and quickly dressed. He stormed through the house once more, not stopping to survey the damage he caused, and bolted out of the driveway like a madman. He had to see it… he had to see it again…

…and just as he feared, 'Alana in Repose' – painted in 1885 – was all that he had left of his precious Alana. Her arm curled behind her head, just as she used to do when she half-sit up to talk to him at night. A smile caressed her lips as she relaxed against the painted tree in the background. Those eyes – as if the real ones were staring back into his – seemed to look straight into the soul of the man that still loved her, her Thomas.

_How? How can I get her back?_ Tom's mind raced, thinking of useless plans to get them to bring Alana back to him. An idea clicked his mind – one so crazy that it just might work! Well, at least it worked for him the _last_ time he tried it. He whispered a goodbye to the woman in the painting, as if her ears could still hear his voice, and he turned and walked out of the museum.

Minutes passed by – his car glided in and out of traffic and along the wooded paths. His hands deftly guided him back to a place he swore to never come to again. He stopped just before the bridge and got out of his car, retrieving a set of jumper cables out of his car before walking to the mid-way point of the bridge. "Alright," he called out to the open air, "we need to talk! I want her back, and if you're not willing – it looks like you're gonna lose my help, too!" Tom set to work, knotting the chunky cords together around the bridge and around his neck. All he could hear was the water from the river rushing below as he stood on top of the bridge.

He stretched out his arms to his sides and fell forward. While he felt nothing more than a dead calm inside, he couldn't think of why at that moment he heard a scream.


	4. Chapter 4: Hole

"The 4400" was created by Scott Peters and Rene Echevarria. All characters (and NTAC!) belong to them. I own nothing more than the storyline.

**Note: The fourth chapter in my short-chapter story. Please R&R, thanks in advance! *Sorry about the short chapters; this is quite literally the first draft. This chapter isn't quite as long as the 3rd, but hey - my muse was back and I tried to strike while the iron was hot!

Chapter 4: Hole

Nothing. No contact or communication. Nothing. They left Tom Baldwin to die because he failed them. This thought was the last that jerked through his mind before he slipped under the darkness. _Maybe she'll be waiting for me when I'm dead…_

…

The world was dark. "Tom? Tom! Wake up, dammit!" "Is he going to be alright?" The disembodied voices kept talking, "I'm sure he's going to be just fine, sweetie…. TOM!" A quick stinging blow came from nowhere… were they torturing him? "…Maybe you shouldn't have slapped him..?" "If he's thickheaded enough to pull something like this, Maia, he can survive that little slap. Dammit, already, TOM!" "Look! He's breathing!" "Phew! That was close, huh?" It was still dark, and it seemed inviting Tom to stay… he slipped back under and slept.

…

An hour later, Tom woke up to the sound of rushing water – was his heart pounding that fast? He cracked open his eyes, and once the piercing sunlight started to not hurt his eyes so much, Tom looked around. He could see the bridge with a set of severed jumper cables in the distance, his clothes were still damp although he never remembered hitting the water. "Mom? He's waking up," a young girl's voice called out. Suddenly a shadow hovered over him, and his eyes focused on the face of Diana Skouris, "C'mon, Tom, enough beauty sleep, already."

"Diana?" Tom coughed, trying to clear his aching throat, "How'd I end up here?" "Well," Diana stated, "let's just say that a little birdie told me." The brunette woman walked over to the young girl and wrapped an arm around her, giving her a smile and a little squeeze. "Oh," Tom said in realization, he'd almost forgotten that Maia had the ability of precognition. Tom cleared his throat and asked the girl, "Maia, I thought you wrote all of your visions down? I didn't know you started telling people about them outright." "I don't, usually," Maia replied, "but you're kinda special to my mom, and I didn't want to see her cry." He could understand that. Before Alana, the only woman he remotely cared about was Diana – but that was in a strictly professional sense. After a moment or two, Tom, Diana, and Maia bundled up into Diana's car and drove back into town.

They wound up stopping at a little diner on the outskirts of town. Once the breakfast arrived and the coffee started flowing, Diana caught Tom's gaze and asked, "Alright, now, are you gonna tell me what's been going on or did you leave your brain tied to those jumper cables on the bridge?" Tom half-chuckled at this before relaying the events of the last 36 hours to his former partner – Alana's disappearance, his resignation ("Sorry about nearly running you over, by the way…"), the painting, the rampage, his not-so-brilliant idea… Diana listened quietly to her friend as he confided that now with Alana gone, all he feels inside is one giant hole – a vast sea of emptiness. "I've lost her," he teared up as he said the words, "and I have no way to get her back."


	5. Chapter 5: Lost, Again

"The 4400" was created by Scott Peters and Rene Echevarria. All characters (and NTAC!) belong to them. I own nothing more than the storyline.

**Note: The fifth chapter in my short-chapter story. Please R&R, thanks in advance!

*Sorry about the short chapters; this is quite literally the first draft. Woot! New chapter, so soon! (I hope to have this finished soon! Thanks for reading!)

Chapter 5: Lost, Again

Days turned into weeks… and weeks into months – day in and day out, Tom would arrive at the museum when they would open in the mornings, and became buddies on a first-name basis with the caretaker that locked up at night. Two years after her sudden disappearance, the pain still as sharp and penetrating as the day it occurred, Tom never stopped yearning for her.

His friends tried to pry him away – they offered him meals, trips to the movies, party invitations. Nothing seemed to sway him from his unfailing devotion to his long-lost Alana. Every day became routine: wake up at 6am, shower and dress, catch breakfast, be waiting outside of the museum before 7am, spend time with Alana, leave once Clarence closed up for the night at 8pm, catch dinner at the local diner, crawl into bed next to her long forgotten crimson satin nightgown.

His nephew took him out to dinner one night, hoping he'd see reason, "Uncle Tommy – you can't keep doing this to yourself. She's gone, and you're still here – you've got to start moving on with your life." Shawn Farrell kept staring into the eyes of the man he once admired, this zombie that now sat in front of him slurping on a bowl of chili. Shawn stared at Tom in silence. They shared their meal like this – in silence – since Shawn was convinced that there wasn't any chance of dissuading his uncle, and that Tom really had no interest in being taken away from her. Once the young man paid for the meal, the two walked outside and he broached the topic once more, "Uncle Tommy, you know that the exhibition with Alana's painting is leaving at the end of the month, right?" That caught Tom's attention.

"What do you mean, it's leaving?" Tom began to rage. Shawn had to explain, quickly, how the museum kept extending their exhibition of late-1800's oil-based portraits simply because Tom kept coming in day after day… but the museum hadn't received any new exhibits in and were starting to lose business, and needed to move on to something else. Since Shawn had left with Tom from the museum, Clarence decided to ask Shawn to break the news rather gently to the painting's number one fan.

Tom's near-inconsolable sobbing prompted the young man in charge of The 4400 Center to put on his best all-business smile to reassure the sobbing man, "Things will get better. Just go home, Uncle Tommy, I'm sure you'll find that things will be better once you get home tonight." Tom felt that his nephew meant well, but really couldn't give a damn about going home at that moment. _Maybe there's time – the end of the month is in 2 days, maybe I can buy the painting…? What if they won't sell it…? Maybe I could steal it… but what if I'm caught? Then I'd never get to see it again… _Tom's mind kept racing with ideas to keep his Alana close to him.

Shawn put a strong hand on Tom's shoulder and repeated his request for Tom to go home. Tom nodded once then walked over to his car and went back into full zombie mode as he drove home. He knew the way, but he couldn't focus on driving. All he could think about was the prospect of losing Alana not just once, but for a second time – with the inevitable possibility that he would never be able to find her (or the painting) ever again.


	6. Chapter 6: Cornerstone

"The 4400" was created by Scott Peters and Rene Echevarria. All characters (and NTAC!) belong to them. I own nothing more than the storyline.

**Note: The sixth chapter (of eight) in my short-chapter story. Please R&R, thanks in advance!

*Sorry about the short chapters; this is quite literally the first draft. – I know I'm cranking these chapters out rather quickly, but I'm excited since it's literally been 4 years since I've written any form of fanfiction (I'm sorry if it's blatantly obvious, I'm still brushing the rust off of myself!)

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Chapter 6: Cornerstone

It hurt to think, and the more he thought, the more Tom was convinced that he'd get caught, no matter how he tried to come up with a completely foolproof plan. The faint rattling of the keys didn't distract him from these thoughts, the new messes on his floor never caught his eye. Tom trudged up the stairs and flipped on the light to his bedroom. The room had been picked up, the bed was made, and at the head of the bed was her… 'Alana in Repose.' The oil-based beauty stared at him the way she used to from the bed that they once shared.

He stared at the painting, dumbfounded, not daring to question how she managed to make it from the museum wall to his bed once more. He sat in front of the painting and gazed at her, truly – letting his fingers caress each stroke and daub of paint visible on the canvas that made up Alana Mareva. He lost himself in this for a few moments before his cell phone began to ring. He flipped it open and gave his standard greeting, "Yeah…?" "…Hey, Uncle Tommy," came Shawn's voice from the ear piece. Tom's face grew into a huge smile, "Shawn, you're never going to believe this, but i----…" "Yeah, I know," his nephew cut him off, "Didn't I tell you that things would get better, that you just needed to go home?" Tom's eyes grew wide in realization, "So it was you…? Shawn, how much did this painting cost you?" "Never mind that," came Shawn's reply, "because A – it was a tax write-off for the center and B – I know how much you still love her." Tom looked longingly into the painted eyes staring back at him, and choked up as he called back into the receiver, "Thank you, Shawn. You have no idea how much this means to me." He could hear his nephew's smile as he replied, "I think I've got a pretty good idea, though." With that, Shawn disconnected the call and Tom shut his phone. That night, Tom hung the painting above the bed and he slept soundly for the first time since she left, under the watchful eyes of his Alana.

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The next morning, Tom woke up and had his first Alana-esque day. He had memorized her morning routine from all of the time they had spent together at their home and in their alternate reality, where they had been married. He moved the painting to the dining room and proceeded to make her favorite foods for breakfast. He knew that this put him beyond certifiably obsessed with the woman in the painting, but he knew no other way to function than to be near her. Once breakfast had finished, Tom set to work. He finally cleaned up the place, even rearranging the furniture in the dining room to allow for a small one-person dining table in front of the painting and for a cot to sleep on. He didn't want to be away from her any more than he had to. The cornerstone of his life now had a painting that became the new cornerstone of the Baldwin house.

That first night, Tom lay on the cot and stared up at Alana. Oh, he chose the perfect spot for her since the moonlight from the window captured her face beautifully. He lay awake and let his mind wander as he began to talk to her: "Alana, do you remember when we would take a drive…? The old red muscle car that we used to love so much… Do you remember the first time I ever tried to make breakfast for you? I was so nervous that I completely burnt everything." He chuckled to himself and let himself be pulled under by the peaceful grasp of sleep.

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"Alana, do you ever remember…?" "Hey, remember that time…?" "I miss you so much, baby…" "What was your life like in the 1880s?" "Did you ever meet anyone else?" "Was it peaceful when you passed away…?" "Alana, did you ever think of me…? Did I ever cross your mind?" Whatever the question, no matter how badly he wanted to hear her voice to answer, she never said a word.


	7. Chapter 7: Time

"The 4400" was created by Scott Peters and Rene Echevarria. All characters (and NTAC!) belong to them. I own nothing more than the storyline.

**Note: The seventh chapter (of eight) in my short-chapter story. Please R&R, thanks in advance!

*Sorry about the short chapters; this is quite literally the first draft. – Please be patient, it'll all be over soon!

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Chapter 7: Time

Tom slid the table back one afternoon and began to touch the painting – not Alana, but began to touch the background, since he didn't want to chance smudging Alana's perfectly painted form. His fingers traced along each groove of each spot of paint. He began to move, trying to predict what the artist was thinking as he set paint to canvas with each stroke of his brush. Then his mind began to wonder, "Did he become the new love of her life? Did she forget about me? Did she look at him the way she used to look at me? Was I just a phase?" Tom gripped the sides of the frame holding the portrait as tears welled up in his eyes. He searched her face for a hint, a glimmer, of hope, of an answer telling him that he was the one on her mind… but the painting smiled back like it always did.

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Tom began to fully live his life around the portrait of Alana. Unless he got the occasional visit from Kyle, Shawn, or Diana and Maia, he spent his days with his long-lost love. For hours, he'd talk to her portrait and imagine the way she'd answer him back – the way his name, Thomas, simply rolled off of her tongue, as if it were candy. He'd eat in front of the portrait and sleep underneath its watchful eyes at night – and never left her sight for longer than was absolutely necessary.

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The years began to fly by in front of his eyes… "Happy birthday, Alana – look, I've made all of your favorites. Haaaaaappy birthday to yooou, Haaaaappy birthday to yooou…." …… "Wow! Did you see that one? Pretty much lit up the whole damned sky with that one! Happy Fourth of July, sweetheart." ……. "I know how much you used to love these, so I brought you a bouquet of your favorites – happy anniversary, honey." ……. "This year, I'm thankful that I still have you, Alana…" ……. "Merry Christmas, Baby – sure wish you were here."

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"Hey, it'd be great if you guys could all come over for Thanksgiving this year…. Yeah, I'll even bake the turkey this year! C'mon, it'll be fun," a world-weary Tom pleaded into the phone's speaker, "Yeah, invite Shawn and Diana and Maia. It'll be nice… Okay, son, I'll see you on Thanksgiving." Tom got up from the recliner in the makeshift dining-slash-living-slash-bed room – his muscles ached and screamed at him as he stretched, and they seemed to be doing that quite a bit lately. He reached for his wallet to check his funds and then threw a loving glance over to the newly reframed portrait of Alana, "I'll be back soon, honey. I've got a Thanksgiving feast to start getting ready for." She smiled her unwavering smile back at Tom as he turned to leave.

Thanksgiving was different this year because everyone was back in town and could get together once again. As his guests arrived, he saw the changes on their faces from the passage of time. Diana admired Alana's portrait when Tom caught up to her, "Well, partner, what gives? I haven't heard from you in a few months, what's been keeping you these days?" Diana smiled and replied, "Ever since Ben died, I've been trying to make a conscious effort to move on – to find something, anything, to fill those lonely hours." Tom had to pause to think for a moment, "Wasn't Ben that photographer?" "Yeah," Diana replied – amazed at Tom's memory, "He came back after he finished with that job in Spain. We traveled around for a while, got married, and had a great life together… then he passed away a few years back." She smiled at her former NTAC partner and he replied, "I'm sorry I wasn't there for any of that… I guess I've been pretty out of it for a while." "A while?" Diana laughed, "Tom, if you call 30 years 'a while,' I'd hate to see what your version of 'five minutes' looks like!" Tom gazed at her, "Well, when the hell did you turn gray?" Feigning offense, Diana shot back, "Probably around the same time you got your gray and your crow's feet, gramps!" She was right, Tom was on the downhill slide of 75, she had to have been reaching 72. _Kyle's already 55 – whew! – his oldest is already expecting my first great-grandkid, _Tom marveled at the thought, _Then that makes Shawn 52 – isn't his youngest about to graduate high school?... Wow… That's got to make Maia 45…or does she count from the year she was born…? Then that'd put her at… c'mon, count Baldwin!.... 88, I think? _Tom looked out at his guests – his friends and family, and their families, and he wonders what could've been, if only they would have given Alana back to him…

The feast was a sight to behold and more than any one man…. Or twelve people, for that matter… could have eaten alone. One by one, his guests left until it was only Tom, Diana, and Maia. Diana busied herself cleaning the kitchen while Maia stood on the front porch. When Tom went to check on her, he placed a hand on her shoulder and gently called her name, "Maia…?" Maia spun around with red-lidded eyes and tear-stained cheeks to stare the aging Tom Baldwin in the eyes, "You will see her once more. She's coming back before you leave." He thought his hearing had failed him, "What was that?" "Alana," the older Maia whispered, "When she returns, you'll both leave together." "She's coming back," he whispered, excitedly, "She's coming back. She's coming back!" The man began clutching his chest as he laughed and cried out, "She's coming back – Alana's coming back!"

Tom clutched his chest tighter, "…back. She's coming… she's coming… back…. coming back, she's --- she's coming b—b--…." Tom Baldwin fell forward and down the front porch steps. Maia screamed, "Somebody get some help! Call an ambulance!"


	8. Chapter 8: Stroke

"The 4400" was created by Scott Peters and Rene Echevarria. All characters (and NTAC!) belong to them. I own nothing more than the storyline.

**Note: The eighth and final chapter in my short-chapter story. Please R&R, thanks in advance!

*Sorry about the short chapters; this is quite literally the first draft. – Thank you for your patience with me, especially with the time between chapters 1-7 and 8.

Chapter 8: Stroke

Beep… beep… beep… beep… beep… beep…

Tom slowly opened his eyes; dazed, he searched the room to find a clue as to why he was there. _Where… am… I?_ Tom thought. His eyes trailed to the beeping heart monitor that indicated that some life still remained in the older Baldwin's old bones, yet how much Tom wasn't sure of. He looked around the room – the blinds were shut and the room was dark. The only light was from the dim bulbs from behind his bed. _Hospital… why?_ Tom questioned. It took a great effort for Tom to reach out his hand toward the bed's control panel. His fingers brushed the "Call Nurse" button and lacked the strength to press it. Tom bowed his elbow and pressed it into the button. "….Yes?" called a voice from the other end. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He struggled to speak, yet could only manage a few strangled sounds. The voice called back, "I'm sending someone your way, honey. She'll be right there." The ticking of the clock's second hand indicated she'd only taken a minute to reach his room. To Tom, however, each tick seemed to take hours.

Light pierced his eyes when a lady came into the room, and even more so when she flipped on the lights to illuminate the room. "Mr. Baldwin," the overly chipper nurse exclaimed, "We're just so happy to see you're awake!" _What is this – the hospital from hell? _Tom wondered. He opened his mouth to begin to speak, but only strangled sounds continued to emerge from his throat. The woman smacked her lips, "Oh, we were afraid this would happen… I'm going to call the doctor in charge. He'll be able to tell you what's going on better than I can. Can I get you anything while you're waiting?" _I… can't speak… and she's asking… if I need anything… what the *hell*?_ Tom's mind screamed out. "I'm sorry," the nurse responded, "I didn't quite catch that. Here, I'll tuck you in and pour you a cup of water…maybe that'll help." The annoyingly-chipper dimwit exited the room and came back an hour later, doctor in tow.

Apparently, the later-identified volunteer worker filled the physician in on Tom's condition, as he walked into the room and began explaining the situation to Tom. "Well," he began, "you had a slight blockage to your brain, Mr. Baldwin. That would be what we call a stroke, Mr. Baldwin. Don't worry about your vocal chords – temporary paralysis isn't uncommon in stroke victims." He went on to try and assure Tom that everything would be fine, and be back to normal soon. The doctor tried to tell Tom to get some rest and then made a quick and quiet exit from the room. The volunteer worker wished him to sleep well and flipped off the lights…

…and he was alone again. The minutes turned into hours, and the room kept getting darker and darker. His heart was pounding in his chest, thick and irregular. _Something's wrong…_ Tom realized, _Is this it?_ He saw a flash of light, so sudden that he shut his eyes to get away from it. He heard a sigh… then a voice called out to him, "….Thomas?" _That voice… could it… can it…. Is she here?_ Tom opened his eyes to see his painting made real – Alana stood in front of him, just as he remembered her. Her hand flew to her mouth as she gasped in horror at what lay before her. She rushed to the bed to sit next to the frail man in the bed. "Thomas... how long? How *long* has it been? Why…" Alana questioned, "Why did they bring me back, now?" She buried her face in his thin, gray hair and cried, hugging the man's form to her.

Tom opened his mouth and focused on the words he wanted to say, "Ah…. Ahhhh…Nnnn…" His voice failed him, even now. The woman sobbed even harder, "Yes, it's me, Thomas. It's Alana. I'm here." He felt his heartbeat thundering, faster and more off-pace than ever. Alana pulled away from Tom to look into his eyes, and moved her hands to the sides of his face – then she squeezed her eyes shut.

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Tom looked at his hands. They were pink and young, not old, withered, and gray. He looked up at the woman in front of him, standing on the front porch of his… their… home. She reached out her hands to him and called his name. Instinctively, he walked up the cement path and up the steps to reach the landing of the porch. He breathed her name, as if it were a prayer, "Alana." His voice was clear and it made the woman's voice catch in her throat. She wrapped her arms around the man before her, and with a strained voice, she spoke: "I thought of you every single day. I prayed to come back, every moment that you weren't with me. Finally, when I realized that there was no way back, I met a friend – a painter… he helped me to create a way for you to find me." Tom exhaled at this realization, "The painting…? It was for me… all along?" Alana nodded and continued, "I never stopped loving you, never stopped praying for the day when I'd find you again." He wrapped his arms tightly around her, breathing in the scent of her hair. Tom's arms clutched at his chest before his body fell, collapsing onto the steps of the front porch – convulsing. For Tom, everything went dark.

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Alana opened her eyes to see Tom's still form on the bed – still warm, yet quickly growing cold. The monitor that beeped only minutes earlier, declaring the existence of Tom Baldwin, now emitted an unbroken sound, ringing the death toll for the man she loved. "NO!" The raven-haired beauty screamed, "No! I wasn't brought back to watch you die… you can't leave! THOMAS!" She heard voices in the hallway, and they were getting closer. She gripped the cords connecting Tom's arm to the IV fluids that were still pumping into his still form. She whispered a final "I love you" into his ear before she wrapped the cords tightly around her neck. She caught the words "Baldwin" and "heart attack" before she flung her body off of the bed, away from the machine. The light from the opening door illuminated her exit as the cords snapped tighter around her throat, Tom's weight holding the IV cords in place. She heard a woman scream as she felt an expected sharp pain at her neck, and then nothing.

The world went dark for Alana Mareva…

Thank you for reading! I've had the idea for this story for about 2 years now… however, I'd not had the time, energy, nor creative juices to even begin writing this at that time. Now that it's out of my system, I can move on. Please look for more stories in the future. I'd appreciate any comments or reviews, should you choose to donate 5 minutes of your time to me.


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